Yellow Roses
by daisyb10
Summary: House, Cameron, Roses and Rain. Romance.


**_Yellow Roses_**

"Dr. Cameron … these just came for you."

You study Jane as she sets the floral arrangement on your desk.  
Perfectly coiffed and impeccably dressed, she's been voted Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital's _Volunteer of the Year_ for two years running. Now well into her sixties, she's strikingly beautiful, both inside and out.

You think of all her accomplishments - an award-winning journalist, a successful businesswoman and the mother of three remarkable children,  
just to name a few. And if that weren't enough, she and her husband just celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary.  
She's the quintessential superwoman of your mother's generation.

You feel a sharp twinge of inadequacy and envy.  
She's everything you hope to be and except for your career, you know that the chances of attaining your goal decreases with each passing year.

"They're lovely, aren't they?" she asks sincerely. "Is today a special occasion?"

"Yes, they are," you agree, avoiding her second question.  
You don't feel like sharing. There's little enough privacy in this hospital as it is.

"Thank you, Jane."  
"You're welcome, Dr. Cameron." Although curious about the identity of your suitor, Jane smiles and leaves you alone. She's far too polite to pry.

_Allison …  
_You remove the envelope from its cardholder and toss it into the drawer of your desk.  
Unopened.  
There's no point in reading it.  
You _know_ who they're from.

Red roses.  
Are they crimson, velvety tokens of love? Or symbols of yet another failed relationship?  
He offered devotion in exchange for your heart, but you couldn't give what belongs to another.

You are no longer together.  
He hasn't forgotten you, as you've forgotten him.  
He remembers this day.

His choice of flowers annoys you.  
He knows they're not your favourite, yet he sends them anyway.  
It's the correct thing to do.  
You can hear him now. "What would people think if I sent you yellow roses?"  
What indeed …  
You hate the hypocrisy of his gift.

You finish your shift and head for your locker.  
You've looked forward to this moment all day.

You slide your new outfit out of its bag - a soft cropped sweater in spring's palest green and a matching floral print skirt.  
You have no reason to dress up, but you _want_ to, just the same.

You brush your hair 'til it shines like gold and bathe your lips with a soft pink gloss.  
You'd forgotten how good it feels to wear something other than dreary scrubs and running shoes.

As you walk through the lobby, the admiring glances that come your way raise your spirits.  
It comforts you to know men still find you attractive.

You go to the park, instead of your car. The spongy turf swallows your strappy stilettos as you start across the field.  
You abandon your shortcut and take the path and wend your way down to the river.  
It is unseasonably warm for April. The air is heavy.  
It's going to rain.

Your heart skips a beat when you see him there.  
He's lying on top of a picnic table, beneath a majestic weeping willow at the water's edge.

He's dressed all in black. _Armani black.  
_His hands are clasped serenely over his chest.  
You can't help but laugh.  
He looks as if he should be lying in a coffin.

He knows it's you … even before you speak.  
You kneel on the seat and whisper in his ear, "House, are you dead?"  
His eyes are closed but he smirks at your question.  
"Why don't you kiss me and find out?" he mutters.

You willingly comply.

You kiss him … softly.  
But as you pull away, his hand swiftly cups the back of your head, drawing you to him once more.  
Your lips part as they meet his.  
His tongue aggressively seeks yours. He probes your mouth relentlessly.  
You can't help but wonder what it would feel like if he …  
You blush at your thoughts.  
This man makes you wet like no other.

He holds you so close you must compete with him for the scant wisp of air that lies between you, when you reluctantly part for breath.  
He caresses your shoulders, then slides his hands lower.  
He furrows his brow and returns.  
Satisfied, he begins again. _This time_, his hands slip _beneath_ your sweater.

He lazily traces the back of your bra.  
"Strapless. Nice … very nice …" he whispers.  
Your dimples deepen as you smile and kiss him again.  
Frustrated by his limited reach, he breaks your kiss.  
"Come … lie beside me, Cameron," he murmurs.

You look at the six inches of space beside him.  
"There's plenty of room. I can scoot over … see?"  
He shimmies over one inch.  
You opt for safety and sit rather than lie.  
Your thigh nestles next to his.

You can barely speak, but manage to ask, "Why are you here?"

"You know how much I enjoy watching people …" he counters.

You eye him suspiciously.  
"On your back? With your eyes closed? In an Armani suit?  
That's _just_ plain weird, House … even for you!"

He smirks. He can't be bothered lying.  
"Okay, fine, Miss Marple. I was waiting for you."

"And you knew where to find me? Am I that predictable?" you wonder with dismay.

He taps his temple with one curved finger.  
"The odds were in my favour. You've come here every day for the past three weeks.  
I saw you … from my balcony."

You shake your head sadly. You've piqued his interest, but not in the right way.  
You're simply a puzzle he needs to solve. You mean nothing to him.

"And you're wondering why?" you ask.  
He nods.  
You shift uncomfortably, unsure how much you want to share with him.

"I come here to think."  
"About?"

"All sorts of things. My life mostly … "  
Your answer is true, but deliberately vague.

He knows there's more to it, but he doesn't push.  
He's content for the moment.  
"So, how was your day?" he asks, twirling a lock of your hair in his fingers.

You turn to face him once more.  
"How was my day, House? You want to make small talk?" you ask incredulously.  
"Sure," he grins. "It's what normal people do, don't they?"

"You're anything but normal, House, but I'll play along.  
Let's see … two gun shot wounds, three stabbings, a broken arm, a suicide attempt and one premature delivery.  
Oh, and somebody sent me roses. Red roses."

"You don't sound terribly happy about your flowers," he comments, propping himself up on his elbow.

You think about what he says. _How do I feel?  
_"I'm not unhappy … just a little disappointed. They're not my favourite colour."

He studies you carefully.  
"So you're telling me, some poor schmuck drops a bundle on roses for you and all you can say is you don't like the colour?"

You feel ill. _Could you have been wrong? Did House send the roses?_

"House … I'm sorry … I'm being childish …I'm …"

He laughs at the guilt written all over your face.

"Relax Cameron, they're_ not_ from me. You should know I'd never spend a hundred and fifty bucks on roses.  
Maybe for a quickie …"  
He pauses, lost in thought for a moment. "I thought red roses were a sure thing."

You try to explain.

"On my sixteenth birthday, my mother sent me yellow sweetheart roses.  
I felt so grown-up when the delivery man brought them to our door … so loved.  
And ever since, they've been my favourite flowers. I always dreamed of having a bridal bouquet of yellow roses."

"Dreamed? But you've …"

You know why he's puzzled.

"Been married … I know. My late husband didn't approve of my choice.  
He said yellow roses symbolized friendship, not love, and he insisted I have red roses.  
He wasn't well. I didn't push it."

You gently lay a hand on his arm.  
"So your puzzle's solved. Now it's your turn to talk."

He swings his lanky legs over the edge of the table and sits up next to you.  
He begins to speak, much to your surprise.  
"I've been thinking about the day I interviewed you for your fellowship."

You smile, remembering that day. "You didn't say much. Wilson did all the talking."

"I know. That was the plan." He chuckles.  
"Do you remember when I told you I didn't want to hire a woman because I'd just get you trained and you'd decide to run off and get married?"

You laugh. "How could I forget? And then you asked me if I had any plans to get married in the near future.  
Wilson nearly had a fit!"

"Yeah, that was pretty funny. But you still answered me, though" he says, grinning at you.

"What did I say?"  
You remember, like it was yesterday, but you're enjoying this conversation too much to let him know.

"You said you wouldn't even consider it until you turned thirty, and by then your fellowship would be over and I wouldn't have to worry about you any more."

He wraps an arm around you.  
"I know why you've been coming here every day after work. It's_ this _birthday. Am I right?"

A lone tear trickles down your cheek.  
"I'm thirty."

He slides awkwardly off the picnic table and picks up his cane.  
He reaches under the bench.

"Happy Birthday, Cameron," he says softly, handing you a bouquet of thirty roses.  
"Yellow … they're beautiful … thank you …" you whisper. "How did you know?"

"You told me once ..."  
He watches with pleasure as you inhale their heady fragrance and stroke the soft petals of sunshine.

He pokes at the ground with his cane self-consciously, then tilts his head to look up at you.  
"So … now that you're thirty … do you still want to get married?"

"If I can find the right man," you say shyly, knowing full well he's standing in front of you.

Your heart sinks as he begins to walk away.

But then he stops.  
He turns to you and holds out his hand.

"Let me be _your_ right man …"

oOoOo

You carry your bouquet like a proud blushing bride.  
He kisses you tenderly and wraps his jacket around you, then walks with you to your car.

It's raining now.

Funny … you never noticed.

**_The End_**


End file.
